“Would you like to me to bathe you?”
Will stiffened. “What?”
Her eyes darted to the sponge placed on the footstool beside the tub. She collected the sponge and lathered it with soap, a glint of mischief entering his gaze.
“Do you want me to bathe you?”
Christ, yes.
Which was to say, hell, no.
The problem that subsided a moment ago sprang up again.
Will quickly snatched the sponge from her. “I’ll do it.”
“You wish to bathe me?” Her voice cracked on the last note.
“Why not? Didn’t you want to bathe me a moment ago?”
“Yes, but... I shall do it,” she attempted to snatch the sponge back, but Will was faster, lifting the sponge above his head, out of her reach. “You can bathe me after, if you like.” Harriet bathing him? It was a temptation too great to let slip away. But he might not be able, for obvious reasons, to return the favor if she went first, and Will really, really wanted to bathe his wife now that the option had appeared.
“Let me bathe you first,” she insisted. “Please.”
Will lost the fight.
What man could a deny his woman in the face of that plea? He certainly didn’t have the strength.
He handed over the sponge, his arm in place to cut his desire from her view, lest he lose this chance altogether. But it was painful. So damn painful.
You can do this, Will.
She took the sponge and, after dipping it into the water, with a touch as light as a feather, she brought the sponge to Will’s chest, tracing its contours with the utmost of care.
Will almost groaned.
He should have turned around to give her his back. Why the hell hadn’t he done that? But he wanted to look at her while she bathed him. He wanted to carve every moment of this into his memory.
Soap left a path of bubbles where she trailed, creating a soothing sensation on his skin. Did she know what she was doing to him? Her unhurried strokes were pure torture.
His body hardened to the point he thought he might explode.
She dragged the sponge to his lower abdomen, her eyes fixed on him with such focus, Will couldn’t take it anymore.
He’d attempted to ruffle her feathers, but she had ruffled his instead. He’d been bested by his wife. He was man enough to admit that much. Though perhaps not to her.
He placed a hand over hers, his fingers moving to encircle her wrist. Her eyes lifted to meet his.
“That’s enough,” Will said, voice gruff.
“Oh? I’ve only washed a bit.”
“You can wash me more another day.”
She searched his gaze, and what she found there brought a deep flush to her cheeks, as well as in impish smile. “What about me?” she asked. “Did you not want to wash me?”
Could he?
No.
